


Blue Flowers

by PeppermintSchnapps



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Eremika - Freeform, Eren Yeager - Freeform, F/M, Shiganshina Trio, mikasa ackerman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppermintSchnapps/pseuds/PeppermintSchnapps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small grin escapes from Eren’s lips.  Those are the flowers best suited for a bride like Mikasa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.  
> You can like, idk man, hate on me after reading this. Yep!

“For a bride,” he says in a voice that is stern and quite loud.  “It is for a bride to be.  Any suggestions?”

It is so hot in the marketplace, considering that it is just forenoon.  There are distinct shouts of items that are on sale and murmurings of what are on the people’s shopping list.  The scene has always been like that, even back then when he accompanied his mother for their grocery shopping, with the murmurs and hullabaloos.  For some reason, Eren would simply want to get away from all the commotion.

He rummages through the small kiosks where cheap perfumes and jewelry fit for eastern fashion are sold, then to where the flower-shops are.  It isn’t crowded like the other shops but he still needs to make his voice loud for him to be heard by the vendor.

“What?” calls out the florist.  He scrunches his eyebrows as he cups a hand to his ear, leaning towards Eren.

Eren resists rolling his eyes at the man.  For crying out loud, he has been shouting for what seems like a hundredth time.  “For a bride to be!  Do you have any flowers suited for a bride to be?”

“A bride!” exclaims the man behind the counter.  He disengages from his post and turns his back on Eren.  “Well, why didn’t you say so?  I’ve got the perfect bunch of flowers for a bride.”

“Thank you,” Eren says as he leans on his arms and looks away from the shop.

Frankly speaking, this has never been easy for Eren.  Flowers are, well, simply just flowers.  They grow from seeds sunken to dirt and at some point, they die; they wither and after that, well he doesn’t really know.  But he thinks it is the most appropriate gift to give to Mikasa.  And that’s why he resorts to flowers, with him ending up in the middle of the town’s marketplace, looking for a flower fit for Mikasa.

The florist comes back holding up a bouquet of white carnations, long-stemmed and wrapped in a two week-old newspaper, still damp with dews.  He holds it up before Eren and grins at him, his gruff mustache curves along.

“For a bride to be.”

Eren looks at the bouquet.   _The typical,_  he thought.  It is always white, white, white.  It is, after all, traditional.  Besides, he has never seen a bride with a bouquet of flowers with the color none other than white.  (Not that he has seen too many brides.)  But then again, Eren is Eren, and white is simply not his color.

He smiles at the florist and waves his hand at him.  “Thank you, but I don’t think it is suited for  _this_ bride.”

The florist tilts his head in question.  “What do you mean that my flowers are not suited for your bride?  My flowers are the best!”

Eren shakes his head.  “No, she is different.  Thank you anyways.  I am really sorry for having to bother you.”

Then he walks away from the flower-shop, the florist gawking at him, whereas with Eren, he perfectly knows the flowers best suited for Mikasa.

-

Back then, he has been in that certain place with Mikasa.  It somehow feels different.  Maybe it is because he goes there for a different reason, or maybe it is because there are no more walls around the place, or maybe it is because Mikasa is not around.

Everything at the moment is inexplicable.  He feels free and air and life, but the moment he thinks of such things, he feels his insides tie up to knots as a certain force steals all his breath and forever-dreams.

Eren sits down by the trunk of the familiar tree.  The noon-air is warm; he is tempted for a short nap.  He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply.

He lets his eyes wander off around the place: the knee-long grass, the cadmium sun, the skies.  He never thought the sky is something beyond abundance.  His eyes then shifted farther to the stretches of the grass, and there he sees it.

_Blue Flowers._

A small grin escapes from Eren’s lips.  Those are the flowers best suited for a bride like Mikasa.

-

Eren gulps as he wipes the beads of sweat forming on his temple with the back of his hand.  He arrives at the place looking like a big dork with his knuckles knocked out of blood as it clutch tightly upon the stems of the blue flowers.  The place seems to be fairly homely; the garden is filled with brown boxes, crumpled newspapers and some stuffs for the house, the tin roof a little worn and lopsided, the frosted glass windows all opened and have gathered up dust on its frames, and a little repainting and whitewashing would do.  He walks toward the front door and just when he is about to knock, the door opens.

“Eren?”

“Uh, hi, Armin.” Eren greets him gingerly.

“Eren!” Armin exclaims.  He steps out of the house and puts down the packages and boxes on the side.  “When did you return?”

“Just last night.  Sorry didn’t make it here earlier.”

Armin scoffs and idly waves his hands in the air.  “Well, this is earlier than what we have expected.  Mikasa’s not really expecting you yet.  We thought you wouldn’t be back until after a fortnight or so.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to miss the wedding, would I?”

Armin looks at Eren; he looks…well, older, if that is even possible.  He has been gone for just half a year.  And at times, (and considerably very sporadic) he writes to the both of them, telling them of his adventures, of what this place or that place looks like.  Of course, Eren has changed, but nevertheless he is still Eren, the angry and impulsive yet emancipated.  But Armin is not dumb enough to not notice his unusual countenance.  He swears to the world that something is bothering Eren.

And he knows why.

“Hey,” he places a warm hand upon Eren’s slumped and shaking shoulder.  Armin also notes the humble bouquet of flowers Eren is holding.  “Come on.  She’ll be happy to see you.” He tilts his head towards the inside of the house.

Eren looks at him questioningly, like a certain creeping reluctance and hesitance restrains him from entering the house.  Armin smiles at him; not the assuring one, more of a sympathetic sort of smile, and for unknown reason, Eren thinks he should be convinced with Armin’s smile.

The inside of the house is anything he has always thought of as a home.  It reminds Eren of his home back at Shiganshina when he was younger.  It is small and humble and warm, like a certain sensation all too familiar spreads within him.  Although, it is still practically empty.  The whole room is occupied with boxes and packages.  There is a small couch with a couple of throw-pillows opposite the front door, a dusty fireplace and a small wooden table dumped with letters and newspaper in the middle of the room.  The paint of the wall is peeling off with blotches of gray stuffs and holes and pegs for frames and shelves.  On the adjacent room is the dining area; the cupboards, the sink, the dining table are perfectly in tack and in place.  A flight of stairs that leads up to the bedrooms serves as the border of the living room and the dining room.

Eren looks around and examines more of the structure of the house.  He hears soft rummaging and shuffling as Armin enters with more boxes in his hands.

“Nice place she got here,”

“Yep.  I’m helping her move in here.  She kinda needs to repaint the whole place, though.”

Eren nods in agreement.  “Where is she?”

Armin places the boxes near to a pile of unopened ones.  “She’s upstairs.  She’s unpacking her stuffs.”

Eren nods as he looks up at the stairs.

“Want something to drink?” Armin offers as he walks to the dining room.

“No, not really.” He mumbles through his teeth.

Armin looks at him with almost-sorry eyes.  Eren walks to the opened packages and digs it with his free hand in search of something interesting.

A light set of footsteps starts coming down the stairs.  Eren’s head quickly snaps to the direction of stairs.

_It is her._

“Hey, Armin, I think I misplaced my—“

When Mikasa reaches the landing, she freezes at what she sees.  Before her, is Eren Yaeger, stupid and impulsive, thank you very much.  She blinks her eyes and shakes her head, in attempt to convince herself that it is merely a dream.

“I’m going to fix outside.  Look who’s here, Mikasa.” Armin supplies as he walks past Eren and makes for the exit.

“Eren?” she dips her head to the side.  She fails to notice that a small creeping smile settled upon her lips.

“Hey,” he waves his hand.

Then the next thing he knows is that Mikasa is in his arms, giddy and excited and dusty at the same time.  He doesn’t know when did his hands manage to pull her into an embrace as he tucks his head to the crown of her head.

She pulls away and looks at his eyes.  “When did you come back?”

“Yesterday.”

“I didn’t know you’d be back so soon!”

“Surprise it is, then?”

Mikasa smiles.  She tries to calm herself, but the excitement is brimming.  She runs her fingers through her messy hair.  Eren looks at her; he thinks she’s so beautiful.  Not that he has not thought of her beautiful before, but there is something different in her.  Something that was not there before, or maybe it is because he failed to notice it.

“Uh, here.” He ruefully hands her the flowers.  He sheepishly rubs the back of his head as if he’s a schoolboy handing a flower to a girl.  He thinks he should have at least made it look presentable, or wrapped it in fancy paper or something.

Mikasa looks at the blue flowers; she has always loved those back then.  She takes it from Eren’s hand, and for a split moment, she feels something warm as their hands made contact.

“I checked the marketplace earlier,” Eren says, his eyes straying away from her.  “but I think these are better than the typical white ones.”

Mikasa looks up from the flowers to Eren.  “Yeah.  I think the white ones are so boring.”

“So,” Eren walks around the room, looking at stuffs dumped on boxes.  “when’s the wedding?”

Mikasa purses her lips.  She looks at the back of Eren unknowingly.  “Sunday.  Next week.” She says reluctantly.

She doesn’t know why she suddenly feels uncomfortable.  One moment, she feels so light and glad, and now, she doesn’t really know what she feels.  Maybe it is because she has never really imagined discussing this with Eren.

She fidgets with the flowers Eren gave her instead.

“I’m happy for you,” Eren turns his back to face her.  He gives her a small smile.

For some reason, Mikasa feels guilt, loneliness, fear, a combination of all.  It doesn’t feel right.  Whatever it is, it sucks the soul out of her, leaving its imprint on her already-shattered bones.  This could not get any worse.

Then he pulls her into another hug, like it is the only sane thing left to do.  He clutches her shoulders with trembling fingers, digging deep through her skin.  Like reflex, Mikasa buries her face to the crook of Eren’s neck as her arms reach out for Eren.

Eren thinks it is the most comforting feeling in the world, all too fleeting for his mind to think of follies and worries.  But then again, he knows this won’t last.  And so he lets go of Mikasa, with an attempt to let go of whatever he feels at the very moment.

Mikasa smiles back at him.  He smiles back at her, and his smile defines it all.  He is lost and broken and incomplete, and nothing else in the world could fill it up.


End file.
